match point

by Ed Higgins

match point

two roses her eyes



no, blue-green

so anyway roses don't compare


but her arms were erotic maps

lithe rivers into white rapids


on hot days we would play tennis

the yellow ball a small beak on clay


& her brown hair talons,

glints & blends of speckled leaves


with the net blinking

watching our perfect serves


she with the wind in her hair.